


Untitled

by Josey (cestus)



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Animal Abuse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cestus/pseuds/Josey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes knowing your history doesn't help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> This appeared in my head and the only way I could get rid of it was to write it down. My apologies.

Sunlight slices down past the parapet into the neglected courtyard, trapping crumbling statues between stark bars of light and shadow. Dominating the centre of the space is a raised garden, not much more than twenty feet in diameter, choked with old established shrubs which make dogged war against leggy unkempt trees, both seemingly oblivious to the creeping native vines that threaten to swallow them whole.

From the undergrowth comes a voice, solemn in the way only a child's can be when its owner is about its own, very serious, business.

“Hold still, you stupid thing. You mustn't move or my good clothes will be ruined and then Tatya will be so angry and I shall have to say, 'But Tatya, it wasn't my fault, the silly beast kept wriggling and wriggling.'”

A thin cry follows and then, “Hush now. Almost done. Does it hurt so very much? Father says it didn't hurt Mama hardly at all and when she saw me she smiled with all her heart to know that she had given Barrayar a son.

“You should smile. You have a son and a daughter and there's at least three more to come. What'll they be do you think? Shall we take a look?”

Negri steps back, swinging the doors silently closed before him, eyes still locked on the white-furred body twitching and jerking feebly beneath the trees, and the dark head bent over it in concentration.

He breathes, the years peeling away, casting him back to another time full of knife-blades and madness, of children and unforgivable sins, and for a brief moment he wishes he was someone else. Then he taps his comlink and in sharp tight tones issues orders; for an hour's grace, a clean-up, and a memo to the Master of Hounds.


End file.
